LifeTaker, LifeGiver: A story of how a Broken Man became a Gravedigger
by PandorasBottle
Summary: After a broken man is left dying on a riverbank, he is found and nursed back to health in a quiet sheltered place. This is the story of how his health and heart were healed for a time, before the winds of winter blow in and scatter fates like fallen leaves.
1. Feverfew and Springwater

In this world, there are Takers of Life and there are Givers of Life. Sometimes the winds of the seasons bring them together, and sometimes the lines get blurred.

Feverfew and Spring water

The Brother threaded his way behind the falls and into the grotto, donkey in tow. They picked their way hastily through the thicket of blanched vines and roots veiling the narrow switchback fissure that lead upwards. Thorns tore at his simple vestments, robes that bespoke of piety, poverty. When the pair stepped into the fading light of the courtyard they broke a run.

"Tulharts! Tulharts! I need you!" he shouted to the modest house beyond the broken remains of the three towers. "Nestor, help me!"

The two residents met him in the yard. He started hurriedly unloading the donkey. "Unburden my beast. Make haste, we need him! Woman, boil wine, make a fever tea." She saw dark blood on his hands and sleeve. "Do you have milk of the poppy? Prepare!" The men rushed away back through the hidden portal in the bank.

Lady Tulhart went to her work quickly, gathering comfrey, feverfew, white willow, yarrow, elderflower, strongwine, wax-sealed vials of pale liquid, her mortar and pestle. She rushed to the great table by the hearth. Two vessels she shoved into the embers, one of wine, one of water, both fetched from a beyond a hidden door behind the hearth. She began bruising the herbs; some she cast into the wine, some, the water. She unrolled a length of clean linen and rent it into strips and dunked them into the simmering wine.

The pots were near to rolling boil when the men burst through the door, half dragging a broken bleeding mess of a man on a great sodden cloak. "Open the door, make way!" They drug him through the door behind the hearth, into the spring grotto, to the shallow pool where the spring box drained through to the sluice hole.

The man was caked in black dried blood, and looked dead but for his white-rimmed, unseeing eyes. They rolled in their sockets and a weak groan rasped from this throat. The men began to peel his armour and clothing from him. Every inch and layer stunk. A pile of metal, leather and mail amassed beside him before they dragged him into the cool clear water. His leg was ripe with rot, his hair with blood and sweat, his clothes with soured mud and piss. She touched his forehead; his flesh was hot as a hearthstone. "Drink this." She poured a measure of white liquid down his throat. He coughed weakly, but swallowed well enough. "Wine," he croaked, looking up through her, more than at her. She obliged. "Kill me," he mouthed, barely a whisper. His lips begged for death but his eyes begged for salvation.

She soaked a cloth in the merciful cool water and began wiping the blood and mud away from his face. A man began to appear from beneath the filth. "Mother's mercy!" she gasped. She knew this man. Nestor couldn't know. A man's brother's crimes are not his own, but Lord Tulhart was wont to curse the house and all of its name, not the single criminal.

Nestor and the Brother uncovered his leg wound. It was grave; it stunk and leaked thick green pus and crawled with tiny maggots. They began to wash it and pick away the maggots. "Don't lose them," she said and handed them a bowl. She had learned a few things as the maesters' pest and crones' shadow when she'd been passed around as a child. She felt him wince with pain as they stripped away the sticky bandages. Another draught of strongwine, another swallow of the milk, and they pulled more at the stinking bandages, crusty bits of flesh tearing with them. A weak cry parted his lips and wet his eyes, and he passed out. His ragged breathing calmed; his body stopped shaking so violently. Mother's mercy, indeed, for a time.

Nestor left to tend to the Brother's donkey and the horse that had followed them when they had collected his master by the river. The remaining two continued their task of cleaning his wounds and his body. When they poured the boiled wine he did not stir. She heated her sharpest knife in a flame and trimmed away the rotting flesh at the edges of the worst of his wounds, but some was too deep to reach. When it was clean as she could make it, she gently washed the maggots and sprinkled them back in to finish her work, while the Brother watched intently. She laid a poultice on it and bound it first with the wine-scalded cloth strips, then with wide clean strips on the outside.

He lay unconscious in the shallow cool water, heat steaming off him. That fever would cook his brain if they didn't bring it out, she knew. She soaked a cloth again in the cool water draining from the spring box and mopped his brow with it, then motioned the Brother to follow her to the hearth. Nestor had returned, and could tend him for a time.

At the great table, she pushed her mortar toward the Brother, and handed him a basket of lush green ribwort, while she began measuring out mustard, ginger, and Dornish pepper powder. His thick arms and strong hands made easy work of crushing the leaves into a mucilage. She then had him mash some onion. She compounded her ingredients and his, tipping in just enough vinegar and flour to bring it together to a thick paste.

Back in the grotto, the woman knelt at the broken man's feet. The plaster should help draw some heat down from his head. She lifted his heavy feet to the edge of the shallow pool. They were white and spongy, and smelled like bad milk or good cheese, too long mouldered in wet boots. She rubbed them briskly to draw some blood back into them. She felt them begin to warm in her hands. She smeared the plaster over them and bound them in rags and let them down but out of the pool. The pungent smell of the compound masked some of the foul odor that hung around him.

Nestor carried in the remaining impediments they had hastily taken off the donkey in the yard; it would not serve for dew to settle on them. That done, he went to try again to tend the broken man's horse, who was proving to be a challenge. Nestor had found him grazing in the yard, but could do little for him but offer him a bucket of water, which he'd kicked to splinters. The hardy aging man would tend to all the undone chores, the tasks that would not wait while time stood still in the cool dim annex behind the hearth. Inside, the woman and the Brother took turns watching their charge, washing him, rinsing away the soil and dark humours that seeped and spewed from within and without, each catching a rest when they could. Only when he'd rest could they; the barely intelligible filth that flowed from his mouth waxed as foul as his body's leakings, and when it waned it was pitiful as a whimpering babe.


	2. Vinegar and Honey

Vinegar and Honey

The sun rose and set and rose again while they tended him, but neither of them saw it, nor counted the hours. Warm water to wash him, cool water to quench his fire; doses of wine, tea, poppy; boiled wine to wash away corruption, poultices of herbs, bandages of linen: it all ran together, a tide of fever and curses, pus and vomit. Slowly the tide began to subside, and pain came less and less, rest came more and more. The Brother was snoring softly in his chair when she returned from starting an onion and bone broth on the hearth. If the broken man still eluded the Stranger's reach on the morrow, he'd need more than wine and medicine to begin to heal.

Exhausted, she dragged a blanket folded thick to cushion the hard damp floor. She leaned close to hear his breathing. She felt his fever radiating against her own skin. If he'd wake, he needed more fever tea. She stroked his forehead and cheek with a fresh cold cloth. After a time, his eyes fluttered open and he tried to speak, but produced only a voiceless rasp. "Wine," again he begged. He no longer begged for death. She lifted his head and poured a thin stream of strongwine, fever tea and honey through his lips. She dosed him again with milk of the poppy, and washed it down with more of the honeyed wine and fever tea mixture. His eyes fluttered closed again and he sank back into the pool, breath ragged.

She stroked the hair away from his scarred scalp and gently rubbed a salve of comfrey and lard into the ruined skin. Most of it was an old wound, she knew, but she felt it might help seal the cratered, fissured flesh, and might allow him a measure of comfort. It may well have; his breathing calmed again and he seemed to rest easy for the moment. She sank into her blanket, just to close her eyes for a moment. She laid her head on his shoulder in vigilance; she must know if he stirred. His heartbeat steadied, and before she knew it she was asleep as well.

Her sleep was racked by vague misty echoes of ringing steel, blood curdling screams, and the smells of death. Fire and smoke, the clash of axe on oak, the sick sound a morning star crushing a helm into a skull. Blood and shit mingled with salt air and wine sweat and burning hair, leather, flesh. Children cried out, women wailed, swords clashed, horses screamed. Somewhere in the maelstrom of dusky images, a beautiful woman held a child of maybe five years, singing softly to him, sweet as honey, as she stroked his thick dark wavy locks. His soft eyes smiled up at her, as if there could never, would never be a greater love than a mother's. The mist swirled again and the soft song was broken by a searing red light and a scream that echoed on and on, men's heavy footsteps and desperate shouts, and someone's cruel laughter. Pain, blinding pain, and the sick smell of melting flesh. The screams went on for what felt like hours until all was drowned by blackness and silence. Empty echoing heartbreaking cold lonely silence.

She woke with a start. Her cheek was sticky with sweat or tears or both. She felt him stir. His fever was waxing again. The Brother's chair was empty; she found him by the hearth, stoking the fire and stirring the broth. Nestor sat at the table breaking his fast on yesterday's bread and a rasher of bacon. She smelled eggs, but even that turned her stomach. She tore a fistful of bread and dunked it in the bacon drippings and swilled it down with a cup of the last evening's buttermilk. Nestor's bread was never as light as her own, but it was sufficient. She sized up the fever tea the Brother had newly brewed; it smelled and tasted right, and he'd found some moldy bread. She began making an extraction of the mold, with yellowroot, sunbride, sweet woodruff, and prunella; she'd mask it with rosemary and honey and vinegar to make it go down easier. It should help keep the corruption at bay, and would help clean his blood, and he may be strong enough to keep it down now.

The Brother was knelt by him when she returned to the cool grotto. He was shivering, but looked more alert. His eyes found hers. "Wine," he mouthed. She knelt and cradled his head. "Please, drink this first. It's strong medicine." He grimaced at the taste, but took her at her word. She followed it with a draught of honeyed wine and fever tea, this time more fever tea than wine, but he accepted it and took more. She stayed with him until he quieted, then took her leave again to the hearth. The others would need to eat tonight as well.

At the hearth, she took down a covered crock from the mantle shelf, and a number of other crocks and sacks. She scooped out a small mountain of flour and oats and made a well in it for a measure of sour milk. She cast in a pinch of salt, and stirred it all together, then worked in a bubbly gobbet of yesterday's dough. She kneaded and kneaded till it was a smooth elastic mass. She rolled it into a round and turned it into a greased bowl and set it to raise, covered, on the mantle.

She returned to the cool grotto with a basket, and went to the cache to the right, opposite the spring box. She ducked inside the wall that divided the dry grotto from the spring grotto, and soon emerged with a basket of roots and pork and a cabbage. She set it down to check on her charge; the Brother had him well in hand. The Brother bid her check his packages, one bore a fresh shoulder, it was laid by in the spring box. At her hearth, she cast a measure of barley into a small pot and dampened it well with boiling bone broth, and set it in to simmer. Turning to her great table, she set to mincing pork, smoked and salted, along with a portion from what had arrived the with the Brother. She cubed sweet yellow turnip and some carrots, and she quartered the cabbage and dropped it by wedges into the broth pot, then set forth a pot of feet to make a jelly.

She took out her flour again, and ladled hot broth over a lump of lard in a bowl and stirred until it melted, and salted it well. She raked in a measure of flour and kneaded it to a clay, from which she began raising a squat round tower. While the barley boiled, she took down her bread bowl, pinched off a knob and tucked it into her dough crock. She punched down the partly raised dough, and gave it quick knead and set it back to raise again. She knew full well it hadn't risen near enough yet, but busy hands kept her mind occupied.

By now the barley was half cooked. She scooped it out of the broth and poured that back into the pot. With seemingly fireproof hands, she mixed the pork and diced roots into the hot barley and turned it all into the tiny keep she's raised from the stiff dough. Deftly she pinched out a round lid, and sealed her tower with a circlet of crenellations around the top. With a slender finger she poked a round hole in the center, then conveyed it to the hearth's tiny oven. She warmed a bowl of honey and vinegar over the fire till they melded smoothly. She bruised a sprig of rosemary and a heavy handful of lemon balm and muddled them with the honey in the bottom of pitcher, and carried it and two cups back into the spring grotto. She filled the pitcher with sweet cold spring water and poured the cups, passing one to the Brother. The cool tart sweetness washed her fatigue and the smell and taste of broken man's pain from her throat. Only then did she think to light some sage and thyme to smudge the cavern's heavy air.

She sat again by his side, and laid her hand on his head. He was still hot but resting, and beginning to cool. She attended him with cool cloths nearly an hour before she rose to check the pie.


	3. Apples and Strangers

Apples and Strangers

The pork pie was fragrant and steaming when she pulled it from the hearth oven. She laid it to cool on the great table, and pulled the pot of jelly from the hearth as well. She strained the liquid into a crock and set it to cool, and cast the bones into the broth, and returned the gelatinous meat and skin to the crock. Nestor, bless him, had milked the goats and gathered the eggs in her stead. There'd be a good meal for the weary caretakers tonight. She pulled down the raised dough and sprinkled meal in the oven and lay the loaf on it and flicked a fistful of water on its stone walls, before sliding the door back in front. Gingerly, she plucked two of the cabbage wedges from the soup pot, now barely breaking a simmer. She chopped them roughly in a bowl then dotted it with butter, and seasoned it with vinegar, honey and a rind of salt pork, and set it on the hearth to keep warm. It would go well with the pork pie. Would that she cared to eat.

She was drawn back into the dim grotto. The day's light never reached the cavern, nor the night's cold. It stayed a steady temperature as the moons turned, summer and winter. It was chilly, but livable, a strong keep it made; nothing came in without their leave but cool fresh spring water, and nothing left but smoke, filtering through unseen cracks. In its ruin, Tulhart's keep was stronger now than before the towers came crashing down, as all the world did for the Tulhart house. Humbled, stronger, as was Gaelle. What was once a strong but modest keep with four strong towers and three strong sons, was now single broken tower in a mound of rubble surrounded by a strong stone wall, the main gate blocked securely by the fallen towers. Most of what kept the mad world out was the natural lay of the land; the man-raised walls were humbled by the what nature had raised millennia before they were built. Faded, shredded banners hung where once the rampant half Hart half Trout with cloven hooves in front and silver scales in back guarded over the walls. But the greatest treasures that remained were stored hidden here, in the spring grotto and the dry grotto to the right behind a wooden wall. Barrels of salt pork, pickled vegetables, bins of roots, ropes of dry sausages, wreaths of garlic, wheels of cheese, sacks of grain, bolts of rough spun wool, linen, and woolsey blend, all the riches that would see them through the coming winter.

And gold. The gold no one knew she and her dead husband's father hid there. The whole outside world had gone to all seven hells, but here, hidden, they kept a quiet vigilance over all that was left of the Tulhart family. They traded goods with the Brothers down the river, and the wandering septon as he made his rounds. The Brothers had never betrayed the secret of this hidden keep. Had bringing the broken stranger here been a mistake? If she hadn't recognized him she might not try so hard to preserve him. If Nestor knew, he'd likely slit his throat, but she knew there was use in this brute. What felt like a lifetime ago, she'd witnessed an act of risk and valor he owed not any man. She felt a treasure buried inside the dark cavern of this man, as rich as the treasure hidden in their own. She knew it lay within, but she would keep the secret close, and mine it when she could. She felt it when she laid her cheek on him, and saw it in his eyes. She'd not give up on him. Though the Stranger stalked him close behind, she stood up to him. Not today, she answered. Aloud, "Not today."

What made her so determined? Her heart and mind faced off and questioned each other. Why do you nurture the garden, and then jerk your beloved plants from the ground to break and bruise them? Why do you cast meal to your hens, then snatch away their unborn children to dash them to pieces? Why do you catch the lamb tenderly then shove a knife into its bleating throat? The gods treated her the same as she did the lives she held dominion over. What had the gods ever done for her? What could this man do for her? Was he to be a tool for her survival, as all her other charges were? Or for her vengeance? Everything she every held onto she had to work for. The only person she owed anything to was Nestor, who kept her alive when all she wanted to do was die, when she made her bed of blood flow above the coverlets, too. And still, what had her life been worth since? Was she but a mummer, acting out a daily show of sweet dutiful servitude, owed for a gift she hadn't wanted? She'd learned early on she'd have to earn her own keep if she were to survive. Her mother had been a glasshouse flower, and when the glass that sheltered her broke and came crashing down, she'd withered and died. But Gaelle, like the Tulharts keep, was stronger after her fall.

"Gaelle, dear one, can you help me with this demon of a horse?" her good-father called out to her. "I can't get near him. We must needs get this saddle off the poor beast, and you have the touch."

"I am half-sick of shadows," the Lady said, stroking the fevered brow once more. Duty called. Would it ever stop calling? She rose, and shook the horse's master's shirt out from the untended pile of his leavings. She chose the thin garment he'd worn closest to skin. The sweat had dried, but it smelled of him without a doubt. She tugged it over her head and smoothed it down over her own clothes. She fetched some apples and a turnip from the bins and followed Nestor into the yard. A bribe; the animal might prove useful.

The great beast stood in the yard with his head low, but started when she approached him. She bit into the sweet crisp apple. The juice trickled down her chin as she chewed. She took another bite and spat the chunk into her hand, and turned her shoulder to him and looked away. His nostrils flared as he drank in the scents the wind carried to him. His ears pricked, and he took a step. Another. She walked away from him, toward the barn. He let her walk a few yards, then he took a few more steps. She stopped, he stopped.

They stood motionless for a time, then he switched his ears and his tail. She took another few steps toward the barn, and this time he followed. She stopped again, her back to him, her hands to her side. He stopped a neck's length from her, shook his head and snorted. She stayed her ground. Gingerly, uncertainly, he reached his nose toward her hand, smelling the sweet morsel she held. A step closer and he nuzzled the garment that covered her. Slowly she turned, but he jerked his head back and wheeled. When he settled, she turned her shoulder to him, and held the apple toward him, while she chewed the piece she had bitten off. He sniffed the air and tossed his head. In time, he lowered it and stepped toward her. He gently took the peace offering and bit into it, dropping half on the grass. He slobbered around his bit and eyed her, sizing her up after eating the fallen half. She pulled a second apple from her bosom and offered it out. He blinked at her for a moment then took it. She turned and entered the barn, and he followed her inside.

He nudged her hoping to find another apple. She touched his soft black nose and breathed a slow warm breath into his nostril. He returned the greeting and let her touch his cheek. He seemed to enjoy having his ears scratched. The bridle likely itched. She eased a rope over his head and looped it over his nose. He let her unbuckle the bridle and pull the slimy green bit out from his teeth. She rubbed the sweaty lines where the leather had sat, for days and more.

She glided her hand down his muscled neck and withers, and down his ribcage and loosened the girth. He was tall, but she managed to drag the saddle off him without help. She held a bucket of water for him; he drank long and deep. She led him to a rack of hay, and tied the lead rope into a makeshift halter. Nestor appeared in the doorway, shaking his head. "I just don't know how you do it," he said, and handed her a brush. The beast snapped at Nestor, but settled after he backed away. Gaelle took the brush and started behind his ears and brushed her way down his neck, across his withers and great barrel, down each leg and to his tail, then attended his far side. He seemed genuinely relieved to be rid of his tack, and grateful for the grooming.

She took a soft brush and gently worked at his face. He stretched his neck and curled his lip and shook. He nuzzled her shoulder and huffed in her face, and nibbled at the collar of her oversized shirt. Something in the giant beast's gratitude and surprising tenderness with her awoke a care in her she'd not felt in some time. "I know, sweetling," she cooed into his ear, "I promise I am taking very close care of him." She produced the turnip for him and took a hoof pick off the wall and ran a hand down his leg and leaned against him. He obliged, and picked up his massive feathered foot for her. She carefully dug the mud out and set it down, and turned to the other feet. One she picked a small stone out of, but mercifully it had been rounder than most in the yard, likely from the riverbank. When she released the last hoof, she heard what must have been a sigh of relief and comfort escape his massive body. Nestor tossed down some more hay, and she went to back to the other creature in her care.

She washed the horse off her hands and took off the crusty green shirt. She knelt by the man and felt his fever. He was improving by the hour, she dared hope. He opened his eyes. "Stranger…?" he whispered.

"No love, the Stranger doesn't stalk you in my house. You will live," she assured him.

"No, Stranger. My horse. Is it him I smell on you?"

"It is. I unsaddled him, fed and watered him, and brushed him head to hoof." He looked at her through a caul of doubt, but saw truth in her eyes. "He is sound, worry not," she smiled, and stroked his brow.


	4. Catchweed and Chamomile

Catchweed and Chamomile

Outside, the sun was well past its zenith and beginning to settle from a late afternoon of bright warm rays bathing the yard. The grasses grew, the goats grazed, the hens chased insects. Nestor had spread catchweed out in the cleansing sun to freshen, to stuff a bed for the healing man. His fever had calmed enough that he'd need a dry bed tonight. Gaelle inspected it and shook out some bugs, then laced it with tansy, costmary and lavender before stuffing it into a clean linen tick. She tucked in a handful of soothing chamomile near the head and loosely stitched it closed. She caught herself singing as she worked. It was nice to be in the sun again, and feel the warmth on her cheek. Dry clean warmth was a change from sick sweaty heat.

Her own comfort made her think back to her charge in the cold dim cave. He needed to get some broth into him. She bundled up the mattress and stuffed it through the doors and into the grotto. The Brother had the broken man clean and drying. She laid the mattress on a pile of rushes and smoothed it. A fresh longshirt was pulled over the man's head and worked under him. She and Nestor helped the Brother half roll, half drag him onto the fresh bed, then covered him with a light blanket. He seemed winded by the ordeal, but happy to be warm and dry. He'd likely hold some broth when he had rested a bit.

She swept and scoured the last of his filth and dross from the shallow basin and rinsed it well, all down the sluice hole. She checked on him again before returning to the hearth.

The pie and the jelly had cooled sufficient, so she tipped the jelly into the round hole, and the pie drank it in. She let it subside, and poured more. She pulled the loaf from the oven and tapped it. It sounded hollow. She lay it on the great table to cool. She pulled the warm crock of cabbage to the table as well, and set out the butter and milk for the men to sup. The bone broth simmered gently, rich with all the bones and vegetables had to give. She ladled out a small bowl to start and fetched it to him, with her own pillow to help him prop up to eat. She started him with a draught of fever tea before cradling his head and placing the pillow under him.

"Please, take some broth," she asked, and fed him a spoonful, and another, and another. The warmth of it brought a healthier color back to his cheeks. His eyes brightened a degree as he inhaled the fragrant steam. He started to speak but is voice still failed him.

"More," he mouthed. "It's good," he whispered. He raised to an elbow and drained the bowl with his own hand. He settled back into his pillow. "Thank you," he said. His voice was getting stronger.

She stroked the hair from his dark eyes. "Where am I? How did I get here?" he asked. She thought it selfless that he'd asked about his horse's fate before his own.

"You are safe in our hidden keep. The Brother brought you to us. The Stranger stalked you at the riverside, but he stole you away. She glanced around to ensure they were alone, and leaned in close. "Do you know your name?"

"Cle..." "Sh..! " she cut him off him, with a finger across his lips. "I know who you are. You are Cayn Royntre"

"But.." he protested.

"Your name is Royntre," she insisted, "No hounds live within these walls, Cayn." He saw in her eyes her true meaning. "I am Gaelle. You are in Nestor Tulhart's ruined keep. We are hidden. Let this settle and I will bring you more." She took his bowl. "How do you feel?"

"Alive, by your grace. Never thought I'd feel that again." Somewhere deep in her heart she heard the same words echo in her own voice.

"How is the pain? Do you need more poppy?"

"Some, or strongwine. My leg, it seethes. The flesh crawls." He reached for it, but she stayed his hand.

"Don't touch it, it must needs stay clean. It's just the power of the herbs and the sting of the strongwine, dulled by the poppy."

"I've heard of plants that scream when you jerk them from the ground, but never an herb that squirms. Did you forget to shake out the bugs?"

"No, love. Just plants," she fibbed. "It's a sign of healing. Rest, sweetling, I'll get you more broth. "

She swept to the hearth and returned with honeyed wine, herbed for fever, pain, and healing, another draught of bitter medicine, and poppy, but just a thimble full for now. He drank it all down, and was ready for the broth, more this time. She helped him prop up to drink it. He took a long draught. His breath blew swirls of steam around his whiskers. Drops of rich broth clung to them and dripped onto his clean longshirt. She wiped his chin.

"Would you let me give you a trim? Shaggy is hard to keep clean." He reached up and ran his hand through his beard and rubbed his cheeks and chin. He did feel shaggy, she was right.

"A trim, if you must," he consented, "but not a shave. I've been naked enough in my sick bed."


	5. Rowan and Willow

Rowan and Willow

While he drained his broth, she gathered her finest shears and a bone comb, and a drape of cloth. She positioned herself crossed-legged behind him and had him lay his head in her lap, and tucked the cloth under his chin and around his head. She carefully caught up a lock of his beard and trimmed it close to the comb, working her way round by inches, taking extra care in near the rugged ruin to one side of his face.

"How do you know me?" he looked up at her.

"Be still," she commanded, "unless you want your nose shortened. I saw you in King's Landing, at the Hand's Tourney, when you intervened between…" She stopped short when she felt the Brother walk in.

"Ah, good, he is growing stronger. Is his mind sound? Did the fever addle him?"

"He is a bit dusky still," she replied, "but I am confident the Stranger has been cheated."

She continued her work, going back over every section to even things out. She combed the loose trimmings out, tapping the comb on her thigh to shed the hair. She started to comb through his hair.

"Hey, not my hair," he protested. She tucked the shears into his hand and closed his fingers around them.

"Worry not, love, I wouldn't dream of it." She combed all his hair over the smooth side of his head and gently worked at the knots. "Turn for me, " she nudged his shoulder and he rolled to one side, and nestled his scarred cheek into her lap. She found a rat's nest at the back of his head. She'd need her own brush for that. She picked at it with her comb and fingers, gently, she tried, but still he winced.

"Don't cut 'em, don't pull 'em out either," he groused.

"I'll fetch mine own brush," she said, as she wriggled from under him. The camphorous smell of the bruised tansy rose where her warmth had been, mingled with the sweet honey-apple scent of the chamomile in the mattress and in her own apron. She loved that scent, and nearly always kept a posy tucked in her apron or her bosom. "Do you have need of anything while I am about?"

"I need to make water." She passed him the chamber pot and left him to his business.

She went to her alcove and pushed back the curtain. She'd not rested in her own bed since the night before he came. She took her fine brush, boars' hair bristles set in a rowan handle stained red, inlaid with silver filigree of a willow tree, its roots twined round the handle. It was a relic of her past, a gift her father had given her mother, when he wed her and made her Jeyne Sallows. She stroked the smooth red wood. The rowan tree. Mayhaps that's where the name Royntre came to her mind when she gave him his protective name. The willow boughs on the brush wept and grew into the ground, just as her mother had wept in her last days. She'd mourned herself to death. Her mother was a willow, a ghost. But Gaelle herself was strong. But for that one night of despair, she'd been resilient as the rowan tree. She stood firm to the winds, the gales of her misfortune that blew and blew again, gales that took her family, her husband, his unborn son. Some gales, though, are strong enough to fell an oak. That was all bygone, she had new duties now, and tasks to attend. She tucked a tiny green box into her bodice and let the curtain fall, as she turned and picked up a stool and swept back to her charge.

"Your humours are balancing," she said, as she emptied the chamber pot down the sluice hole and rinsed it well. His water was still dark, but lighter than it had been and not nearly so foul as before. "Can you sit up for a time, love?" Still on his side, he heaved himself up on one arm and tucked his good leg under him and stretched out his bad one. She settled her stool behind him, and bid him lean back on the pillow she tucked between him and the stool, and had him settle between her calves. Her knees tucked under his arms to help support him, opening wide to accommodate the breadth of his beam.

With her mother's brush, she stroked his hair all back into her lap and began working the ends, gently working her way up into the tangles. She worked at bits of it with the last two tines of the comb when she came to bad knot, gently teasing hairs out one by one, until each knot gave up a core of broken hair and a fragment of leaf or bark. With each knot dissolved she'd run the brush back over every inch until she'd worked through all the knots, then she'd start again and find more.

Nestor and the Brother came in, attending to some bundles. She smelled apples. "Look at that, Nes. I tell you, he'll be out chopping wood in the morning, " the Brother laughed. They set about their work.

"Don't stop," Cayn asked.

"Of course not, love, I'm not done," she said as she continued to stroke.

"Singing. You were singing again." Her brush stopped.

"Was I? Again? I haven't…"

"My lady, you sing oft times when you work. I have heard it in my wake and my sleep."

She turned to the men. "I don't sing when I work, do I?"

In unison "You do indeed," they replied.

"Ah, so I do," she resigned, and began brushing and humming a favorite hymn. She sang a few words… "lantern, guide me the way," her sweet soprano lilting through the grotto. The Brother's tenor joined in, their own echoes playing harmony. "I walk down in the river to pray.." they sang. She was not so pious as the hymns bespoke; but she was decent at keeping her bawdy tunes hidden when there were solemn ears to witness. Her sweet voice was like a ray of light to all three men; she seemed to glow when she sang out loud. When the song had finished, the men left the way they'd come, but with a lighter step. She hummed on quietly as she brushed. All the knots were gone, the last dissolved halfway through her song, but she was content to continue the attention, as was he to accept it.

"Does your lord husband not begrudge the close care you give me?" he asked.

"A Lannister knight left me Ser Gabe's widow," she replied. "Lord Tulhart is my good-father. He keeps me as his own blood daughter now, since he lost all his sons. His line is ended."

She forgot his scars and stroked the brush gently across the ruined side of his face. He leaned his head back into her bosom; a purr of comfort rumbled low in his throat. As she continued to stroke the ruin, she felt the warmth of his armpits sink onto her knees; his weight lay against her, her calves supported his ribs. The stool creaked. She lay her free arm over his shoulder, her fingers traced his collarbone to where his heart beat strong in his formidable chest. She felt his hands wrap around her shins and slide down to her ankles. His touch felt warm and firm but gentle on her skin. Her heart skipped a beat. What was she doing, she silently questioned herself, why did this feel so good? She hadn't nurtured anything but plants and animals since that awful week when world had died. No man had touched her since last she saw Ser Gabe alive, nor had she craved it. That part of her was dead, it had barely ever lived, she thought. She'd been the Maiden, and lost that; she'd been the Mother, and lost that. All she held onto was being the Crone, the Smith, the Warrior, even the Stranger. She stroked her mother's brush through his beard, pulling out more of the missed trimmings that clung to him still. A good twenty strokes after the last loose hair was brushed away from his chin, she turned again to his scalp, brushing all his strands away from the ruin. She lay down her brush and took out the green box of salve, nearly liquid from the warmth of her bosom. With a slow gentle hand she stroked it onto his flesh and massaged it in.

All the tension had left him. He rested in her embrace, like he hadn't rested since his mother held him. He breathed in her warm fragrance, and felt her heart beat in time with his own. The Warrior in him lay down his arms, as it seemed the Warrior in her did as well. The Smith and Warrior had ruled her every action for the turns of how many moons, she couldn't remember, but that season was turning somehow. She now began to embody the Crone in crafting and guiding his health, the Mother in her was awakening in caring so close, and something in him was stirring the Maiden back to life in her. Her strokes slowed, and she laid her cheek on his head and soaked him in. Again, time stood still in the sheltered quiet, while tempests swirled inside her.

She must have fallen asleep again, these visions couldn't be real. She watched rhythmless pendulums swing wildly on the pitching deck of a warship, tossed between an angry sea and clashing sky. She watched spirits battling each other, Servitude and Contempt clashed with battleaxes. Empathy and Apathy wrestled on the deck. Sensitivity and Brutality slit each the other's throat. Rage and Tenderness both tore at their foe's heart with fang and claw. Obedience and Rebellion lashed with strap and chain, Valor and Disdain charged at each other on pitching lists. Love and Mercy were hanged embraced, tangled in the top rigging, weeping, wailing, and tearing at their own throats, while Hate and Vengeance flailed them with barbed whips. Vainglory sat back and watched it all. All the while, the winds pushed the galleon toward the rocky shore. The masts rolled from pole to pole. If some force didn't turn the tides, if some captain didn't right this ship, the Dichotomy would burst on the treacherous rocks and drown.

A strong gentle hand on her shoulder woke her. "My Lady, you must needs eat, and have a good rest. You are frayed. " With the strong Brother's help, she let the healing man down into his bed. The Brother cradled him head and shoulders into his pillow without waking him, and lay his legs straight and shrouded him warmly. He slept like a dead man, the deepest rest they'd seen yet. The Warrior in him had truly laid down all. Before they left the dim cavern, the Brother leaned down to her ear. "You need to see this," he said, and led her to a dark corner beyond the spring box. He untied a knot and let the sack fall to surrender its secret: a soot black helm, set with hateful black eyes and gnashing teeth. Rust at the tips of the canine fangs looked like old blood. "You know who you shelter here, I see no shock in your eyes," he accused. "Do you know his crimes?"

"I know some of them, I have heard whispers. But there is a valor in him, I have seen it. How much of his past was at his masters' command? Is obedience a crime? He is no innocent man, " she agreed, "but he is a man. His own man now."

"Then let the Hound die, and let this new man live," he replied. "I will lay this helm on a grave and let the world think him dead. Let him pay penance for old crimes when he has his strength, then let the Father judge the new man that grows from the dead man's ashes. Now let's feed you and bed you down, before you turn to ashes." With that he gently dragged her to the great table and fed her pork pie, cabbage and fresh peaches, then trundled her yawning to her alcove. She too would sleep like the dead that night, and dream no dreams, only snowy mist.


	6. Cider and Salt Pork

Cider and salt pork

She woke with her cheek pressed into him, breathing in his scent. She opened her eyes and found only her own pillow, the same that he had rested against hours before. How many hours had she slept? She rose from her alcove and donned her overskirt and apron and shuffled into the kitchen. A new man sat bundled in a chair within the hearth's warmth, with a blanket over his lap and a bowl in his hands. The Brother was unfolding a length of roughspun wool. Nestor had the end of a forked oak staff in the fire to harden. She sat on the bench and leaned on the table. Through rheumy eyes she blinked around room, and realized by the light outside that it was far well past noon, and the sun was fading again.

"You work wonders, child," the Brother told her. "I washed his wound while he slept. The flesh is pink and clean, and is healing like I never expected. I am learning a great deal from you." He leaned down and whispered in her ear, "Your tiny chirurgeons did fine work," then sat by her. "Eat, sweet Gaelle," he said, pushing a bowl toward her, "You give too much of yourself." It was barley cooked in bone broth, with butter and garlic and sage. Slivers of the meat from the jellied feet glistened here and there. It warmed her and stuck to her ribs. A hearty cup of cool sweet cider brought her new life. She shook off the fog, and stood, taking up the wool.

"He'll need new breeches The old ones are rotted to rags." She stopped by him on the way to fetch her tools. She lay her hand on his forehead and felt no fever. "You are a new man today, Cayn Royntre. Welcome to my hearth. May it feed you and warm you well."

She returned with her sewing basket and produced her shears, her apple of needles and a box of thread. The remains of the old breeches had been hung outside in the sun to dry and air. Washing them had done as much harm as good, she could see in the waning twilight. But enough of both remained that she could span her hands across the waist, and measure the length by her own arm spans. She committed her measurements to the patternmaker in her head and went back inside. She cleared a wide space on the great table and spread out her work. Her good sharp shears made quick work of the thin brown fabric. While the men talked of goods to trade, and of news from the realm, her fingers flew and her needle glinted in the glow of the hearth as she worked. After a time, she lay down her work and wrung her hands. The work was making her fingers ache, and the news, her head. She turned to her lucet and fed it a double strong waxed flaxen thread. She began to work it, looping and turning, looping and turning until she produced a rattail of reasonable length, but not yet enough to serve. Again she wrung her hands and cracked her knuckles.

She stood and warmed her hands by the fire. She felt a hand at her elbow. Cayn had reached out to her. She bent to him. "Fetch me your salve, lady." She pulled down a red box of salve, warm with ginger and peppermint and cloves, and a hint of peppers, tinged purple with the juice of bleeding yellowstar. She sat on the skirt of hearth and gave him her hands. His strong hands made hers look like a little girl's by size, yet careworn, they still told a story of her toil. Firmly, but gently as a lamb, he worked the sharply fragrant pomade into her aching joints. She rested her elbows in the blanket on his lap, and let him work her fingers, palms, and wrists, with soothing strokes across their fading scars. His dark eyes gleamed in the warm firelight. For the moment he felt useful again.

She bowed her head and soaked it in. The conversation faded to the background. Faintly she heard one voice say "Watch him, he'll spoil her," and another say "Let him, if it makes her happy again. She saved his life, let him save hers." All the knots in her joints and tangles in her arms relaxed and dissolved. He held her hands in his and stroked his thumbs across her knuckles and gave them back to her.

"Thank you, Cayn, you are a comfort to me." Something like a smile curled his lip and his eyes shone warm. She gathered up her work from the table and brought it to sit again on the hearth, and leaned back into the warm stone wall. Nestor took a thong of leather and bound a thick soft bundle of sheepskin around the fork of the branch he'd skinned and trimmed, then leaned it by Cayn's chair. "Tomorrow you should start trying to walk," he said, and turned to other work.

The men gathered the Brother's bundles together to ready for the morning's travel. He's been away from his isle way too long, and was surely missed. The products he took back with him would be replied in a moon's turn with more wine from the ports downriver, salt from the Saltpans, and fresh pork, portions to be crafted by the Tulharts into smoked dry sausages, bacon, crocks of rillettes, and pickled feet, all to accompany other treasures of the orchards and fields. Nestor would rise at dawn to help the Brother load the donkey and set out, so both men went to bed while Gaelle sat sewing.

"My mother used to sing that song," he said. She hadn't realized until then what she'd been humming.

"I remember…" she started. His wet eyes took a questioning look at her. "I remember singing it to my unborn child, " she lied. Something in her halted and retreated. "No, I never sung that song before. I never heard it before you came here." She dropped her eyes, and confessed the visions that came to her when she slept next to his fevered flesh. She wondered if he was put off by the truth of what she was, this gift that sometimes awakened. He sat back, in a troubled silence.

After a time he broke it, "So then you know my secrets. And you know what I am."

"I know what you were, and some of how you came to be. I have not seen your future, nor have you. You are tormented inside, I know. I realize I am as well. But these contests are not decided. Your story is not finished until you rot in the ground. You are a new man, let the old one rot. Bury him. Bury the Hound. Write your own story, Cayn Royntre."

"Would that could. I have unfinished business, and more graves to fill. But that is neither here nor there. I suppose he is dead, he may just as well rot. I was a Warrior. Now I am a cripple, half naked and barefoot." He sounded defeated.

"Then stand up and try on your breeches, and we'll clean your boots. I stared down the Stranger for you."

"You wasted your time," he said harshly. His eyes flared and smouldered, as did hers.

She cast her work aside, and walked away. "Let him fume," she said to herself as she slipped behind the hearth to the cool darkness. She wondered if they'd woken the men. She sat in the dark and thought about how she'd changed just in the last week. She remembered how hopeless she had felt when Nestor had bound her own bleeding wounds and sent the Stranger away with only one tiny soul. She wiped her eyes and went back out to light a candle, not even looking at him. She went back into the grotto and returned with a jug and a slab of bacon. She poured a cup, took up her knife and started shaving off thin slices from the smoky marbled meat.

"I have a thirst," he said. Silently she poured him a cup and reached it toward him. He leaned and stretched to span the gap. "Forgive me lady, I should not be harsh to you." She yielded him the cup. He tasted the liquid, good hard cider, and stout from the taste. She said nothing, and poured more for herself, downed it and went back to slicing. The sharp blade glided easily through the white fat. And into her thumb.

"Seven Hells!" she gasped. The knife clattered to the table, and she held her thumb. It hadn't started bleeding yet, but it would, and it stung. She grabbed a rag and sank to the bench, clutching it and breathing shallow and ragged.

"Let me see it, lady." He took up the crutch and stood, trying it for the first time. He hobbled to the bench and sat beside her. She gave him her hands still grasping the cloth tightly. He peeled back the fabric. Blood oozed through the deep fissure and soaked the cloth. She bit her lip and looked away. "You didn't cut it off, you'll live, I think. Do you need milk of the poppy?" he chuckled.

"Don't mock me, it hurts," she half snapped, half whined, "I think there is salt in it, or the fire from the balm." He squeezed it. "Ow," she grimaced.

"The blood will clean it, lady. Let it flow. Sit quiet."

He held her hand soothingly, wiped away the blood and inspected the cut while it bled. She studied his face in the warm light of the hearth. He had a heavy brow, shocked with wild coarse hair on one side, scars on the other. His eyes were dark and expressive, to anyone who'd take the time to look. She'd seen them dim, bright, stormy, vacant, troubled, angry, remorseful and now tender. His aquiline, maybe once broken nose flared wide above his sculpted full lips that narrowed into a tight scar on one side. These lips that hid teeth like those of a horse were flanked above and below by rich wide fields of growth she knew to be softer than they appeared. His jaw was strong and square, though on one side the skin that covered it was uneven and ravaged with ropy scars all the way past where his ear should be. No wonder he hid it beneath his hair. Not one thing on this man was delicate. Except his touch.

He took up the same knife that'd bitten her and cut a clean strip from her bloody rag. Gentle as a butterfly, he wiped the new blood away and securely bound the wound with the strip, pulling it snug but tenderly, then held it to his heart. "I'll chase away the Stranger for you, sweet lady. Or shall I call you Halfthumb?"

"Brute," she jeered, and punched his arm with her good hand. "Call me Gaelle," she said softly, and leaned in to kiss his ravaged cheek.

When the men rose, they found Cayn asleep in his chair, and Gaelle pulling freshly cooked bacon from the hearth. A crock of steaming eggs scrambled with tarragon soon joined them. The men ate, then went about loading parcels on the donkey. One bundle made a metallic scrape as it settled into place. The Brother exchanged a look with Gaelle, but Nestor didn't notice. Gaelle hugged his neck, and whispered in his ear. She'd see him again when the moon set full. She said a prayer to the Crone to guide him and the Warrior to protect him, and bid him a peaceful journey.

In the days and nights that came, Cayn's strength would grow and grow. Early on, Gaelle would walk him around the yard and have him follow her as she performed her chores. In his free hand he'd carry her baskets, and use his far reach where hers fell short. She packed his rusted mail into a cask with sand and had him kick it round the yard to build his leg up. His strong arms turned the apple press and made sweet nectar yield from the cold fruit. His gentle hands learned how to pluck the loose hair from softest goats without raising their concern, so she could spin soft yarn. He shifted from sharpening swords to sharpening kitchen knives and scythes. He learned to turn the damper in back of the hearth to fill the hidden smoke box with the sweet musky fog that would color and preserve the meat he helped her hang inside. His strong hands made easy work of tipping the heavy skillet of hot fat into the potted meats to seal them. He helped Nestor make needed repairs on the remains of the keep, without changing its abandoned look that helped keep trouble at bay. The Warrior was becoming the Smith, the killer was learning to foster life.

When Cayn and Gaelle were alone and out of earshot to any human soul, they'd sometimes talk about his past and hers. She told him how her parents' deaths had left her transient, at the mercy of kind aunts, uncles and cousins. She explained the scars on her wrists and the events that had led up to them, naming only "a Lannister knight" and never more precise than that. He'd recount his sins, crimes and trials, and sometimes he'd weep. They tormented him, but sharing a burden lightens it, and reminded him that purging helped make the new man strong. Being so near Death had changed him, he was less wont to wish to dole it out so freely himself, but insisted it still had merit when due. And there was still one hate that burned an ember in his heart, though he tried to hide it, she felt it, but did not press him. Her heart burned there, too.


	7. Crimson Clover and Bearded Barley

Crimson Clover and Bearded Barley

He still needed the crutch; he kept it nearby, but he was able to hobble a dozen steps without it as he needed to. And he could swing an axe; his arms and back were sound. He'd been splitting wood for the hearth; from the tree the wind had taken down in that storm before he had arrived, the same tree his own crutch had come from. With the barn's back door open to the breeze, she could hear his axe fall. She loved the hollow ringing sound of the wood when it fell in two parts, and the gruff sound of his effort huffing through his clenched teeth. From time to time he'd stop for a draught of the switchel she'd brought him. The sweet tart nectar would drip glistening down his neck when he'd drink deeper than his throat could accommodate. She caught herself watching him more than once. He hadn't, though. He was more focused on his work.

She turned back to cleaning the saddle that had lay neglected since the day she pulled it off the great beast. She glanced up at his studded leather jerkin, hanging by the cloak she had washed four times before it came clean. She'd hung it in the barn after it aired two days in the sun. She would work on his leathers tomorrow. She scoured the stirrups with chalky sediment from within the grotto, they gleamed as did the bit she'd cleaned in the same manner. She worked lanolin and beeswax into the leather, polishing it with a piece of sheepskin as she went. It began to shine again in her care, as Cayn had. He shed his shirt; the sweat made his freckled shoulders glisten like river rocks. His muscles rippled with every blow. His hair tossed and flew when he swung the axe, except where the sweat plastered it to the ruined side of his face. Where the sun filtered through it, the hair shone rich deep walnut, not truly black. On his muscled chest, hair lay in ringlets, a thicket that blazed a narrow trail into his breeches. He was so powerful, yet with a certain grace, like his horse, that showed in the way he swung a blade. No wonder he'd been a renowned warrior in his previous life.

Saddle done, she turned her hand to the giant that'd been nickering for her attention while she'd been polishing. She stroked his nose and brushed his mane. He sniffed and snuffed at her bosom; she'd still sometimes hide treats there. The door darkened as Cayn hobbled in, crutch under one arm, using his shirt to wipe the sweat from his face and neck before tugging it back over his heaving chest. Weeks without heavy work had left his lungs out of condition. "He loves to hear you sing." She'd been doing it again. She continued, "With snow white rose, surrender to me. To unlock your heart, do grant me the key. Mine own belongs to only you, my heart belongs to you."

She flushed as he brushed past her, but hoped it was dim enough in the barn that he hadn't seen. He took a brush to the horse's far side and began matching her strokes. "Seems you've tamed this beast," he said. "You've won his heart."

"Its hard to know the heart of a beast," she answered, her blush shielded by the great neck , "but I feel he trusts me. I daresay this one will never be tamed."

"Maybe not, but you've shown him a kindness he's seldom seen. And it counts that you never showed him fear. And never pity, only compassion." She wondered if he was still referring to the horse, or had been at all.

She brushed the broad back and powerful haunches. She craved to feel the massive beast under her. "I've never sat a warrior's destrier. It must feel like riding a dragon," she mused.

"Would you like to try him?" he asked. She stood silenced, her lips parted with the beginnings of a thousand words, but paralyzed. Where words failed her the look in her eyes spoke volumes. Before she could muster a sound, he'd had his hands around her waist and swept her onto his back. She pulled the back of her underskirts up between her thighs and tucked her overskirts up around her knees and swung her leg over his withers. She wrapped her legs around him and leaned forward, burying her face in his thick wavy mane. Cayn warmed the clean bit in his hands and slipped it into the animal's mouth. He licked and chewed; it had been a while since he's tasted it. "He needs to be ridden, he's been idle too long," he said, as he led them out into the fading light. He opened the gate and let them through, and closed it behind him, and climbed up on it to throw his bad leg over from the far side. He settled in close behind her and nudged the stallion to a slow walk. Even at that pace, his massive stride stirred her. She was excited by the power of him, almost trembling, almost nervous, but safe wrapped between the flesh of the horse and the flesh of the man.

The rhythm of the easy gait relaxed her and she sank into them both, the wave of each step rocking her gently. His arms brushed against her ribs where he held the reins. They walked by the patch of crimson clover, dotted with the bees making last minute collections before the day faded. They wound their way around the fallen oak, its broken branches intertwined with those of a twisted peach tree. Her world had a different look from her new perspective. It felt bigger, wilder, and more alive. Where the yard opened up into the rear acreage of the natural hillfort, he urged the beast into a faster walk. They took a turn by the bearded barley, wagging in the golden light. She felt his legs squeeze again and the beast broke into a jarring trot. She grasped a fistful of the flowing mane for support, but soon he eased into a smooth canter. She felt Cayn shift the reins to one hand and slide the other around her waist and pull her tight to his body. She could feel his heat and heartbeat, as she could that of the majestic beast beneath her. The scent of his sweat filled her with intoxication, the sweeping wind raised gooseflesh up her spine.

She let go the lock of horsehair and raised her arms in the breeze they made, and soared like a gull. "You seem to like it well enough," he chuckled aloud behind her. It really did feel like riding a dragon, she thought. The whole world had turned golden, the sky, the barley, the sheer rocky face of Stoneseat rising from the land. She closed her eyes and let her head lean back into his chest. She lay one hand on the strong one that held her, and the other she lay on his muscled thigh. She had not known bliss like this in years, if ever. She gave herself in to it completely.

As they looped past the high ground he slowed their mount to a walk among the peach and apple trees. "I remember you," he broke the perfect silence. "It was you that brought me that same sweet drink the day I took up my sword against my brother." She had never forgotten. She would always remember how she left the Tulharts' blue day shade, dagged in black and silver. She'd crossed the lists with her pitcher and her cup. Would that he'd slain the monster that day. Would that he'd sliced open that thick neck, would that the King had not called halt. She might be a different woman; a mother to a living child rather than a wisp of ashes gone to the wind; a wife, not a widow. She had never loved her groom, but she had loved his unborn child. She knew that tiny seed longer than she'd known the man that had sown it. But that was all gone now. Would that things had happened differently. But had they, she'd not be right here, right now. Had all the grief been worth it? She had more life in her now than she had ever before, than even when two hearts beat inside her. Would she trade what she had now for what she lost then?

The golden sky faded to red, then dusky purple, then deep blue. The nearly full moon's light silvered the golden barley and the leaves of the intertwined trees, shining high overhead by the time they walked back toward the barn. Even the clover had closed themselves and readied to bed down for the night. He bent to open the gate, and rode through, into the barn, where he leaned forward and tucked his good leg over the mount's rump and slid to the ground. He lifted her down from the heights of the beast. Her cheeks and bosom were flushed, her thighs were hot and damp, and her head felt dizzy, almost as if she were drunk. She stood there in his arms, still pressed between him and the soft warm barrel she'd slid down from. Butterflies battled in her stomach, and turned to dragonflies, scorching her inside with hot breath and pummeling her with beating wings. All the ice that had ever been in her melted and steamed away.

She felt a gravity, a pull between him and her. She slid her hands up his chest and to his shoulders. He leaned into her, she could feel the warmth of his breath on her closed eyes. His powerful arms closed around her and drew her closer. She buried her cheek in his chest and he stroked her hair, resting his chin on her crown. She felt her heartbeat quicken in time with his. His warm hand gently stroked her cheek in the dark, and a forefinger curled under her chin and lifted her lips to his. She yielded to him, his kiss was gentle, firm, and with a patience to it that seemed to span the last two turns of the moon, the last sixteen turns. There was no urgency, no desperation to it, no refeeding of a long starvation. It was as if it had always been, and always will, as if the kiss had started at the dawn of the First Men, and would last until the end of the world. It was the only event that ever happened, ever mattered, and ever would, to the only two people who existed in all the world, for all of time.

While they embraced, Kings reigned and died, battles were fought, enemies were vanquished, heroes exalted. Summers and Winters came and went. Whole empires were raised and razed. The sea washed over the whole land and the land sprang anew. Even stars winked on, flared, and burned out, yet there they stood, untouched by anything.

Anything, but the nudge of an impatient horse. They broke their embrace. She gave the horse a quick brush, a lick and a promise. Since a lame leg would not allow Cayn, she cleaned the heavy feathered feet, while he tossed down some hay and measured out some oats. She fetched a bucket of sweet clean water. Once he was satisfied that his animal was properly bedded down, Cayn turned his attention to his lady.

He wrapped his powerful arms beneath her soft round buttocks and scooped her up, kissing her mouth, her throat, her bosom. He sniffed and snuffed at her like a rutting stag, a hungry bear, and pulled at her laces with his teeth. It excited her, she cried out. He stopped. "Forgive me, my lady," he let her feet down to the straw-covered floor and bowed his head. "I have overstepped…" She interrupted him with a kiss, urgent this time, and guided his hands to her bodice. She tugged his shirt up and pulled at the laces of his breeches. She felt him press hard against her. But again he stopped.

"Not like this, sweet Gaelle. Not in a dirty barn," he spoke softly into her ear. "Let me take you to a softer bed." He picked up his crutch and took his cloak off the peg. He led her out the back door and to the patch of cleavers that grew where the huge oak's broken limbs tangled with those of the tiny peach. The branches formed an arbor over them. He spread his cloak on the pillow of bedstraw and began to undress her in the moonlight. He loosened the laces of her bodice, and tugged at the drawstring that held her dress on her shoulders, while she finished unlacing him. She shrugged out of the fabric and let her modesty fall to the ground. Even in the silvery light he could see how she glowed pink in her cheeks and bosom, like the blush on the last of the summer's peaches whose scent sweetened the air around them. He pulled the shirt she'd sown for him up over his head, the embroidered red berries dark as blood in the shadows. He steadied himself on a branch while he drug off his boots and stepped out of his roughspun breeches. He took her hand in his and lowered her into his cloak, standing over her clad in nothing but hair and bandages.


	8. The Peach and the Oak

The Peach and the Oak

He knelt on the bed he'd made, parting her ankles with a gentle brush of his knee. "You are a sweet ripe peach," he said, as he parted her lips with a fingertip. He stroked across the peach's stone, swollen and tender. She drew a sharp breath, and eased her knees apart. The fruit cleft open and yielded its sweet nectar. A drop of honeydew glistened on him as he lowered himself gently toward her. Gently, slowly he guided his own swollen apple into her. She tried to yield to him but there was resistance.

"Wait," she whispered, folding a bundle of shed clothing into pillow to tuck beneath her soft curved hips. It was advice she'd been given before her wedding night, but hadn't needed it before now. The angles changed, and he made smooth easy headway for an inch at most. Resistance, but he pushed through; a small stretch, a snap, a slight yield. It was like wading through a thicket of young honeysuckle vines without a blade. Another stretch and snap, then release. Her eyes dampened, grew wide and clenched shut, and she gasped.

"Do I hurt you?" he asked.

"No… Yes," she fought with herself, "but I want this." She looked into his eyes and gave a nod of resolve. He pushed a little further. Stretch. Snap. Yield. She cried out in pain, or was it?

"You said you weren't a maiden."

"I am not, I gave my maidenhead to Ser Gabe in our wedding bed, but he was not..." she drew a sharp breath and released it, "like you."

He shifted his weight to one arm and slid the other beneath her ribs and shoulders. He pulled her gently up to him and kissed her forehead, her closed eyes, her mouth. She tasted her own salty tears on his tongue. He felt her melt in his embrace. The tension left her, he felt her yield completely, body, not just mind and heart. He sunk deeper into her, she drank him in. A low breathy moan softly rose in her throat. One more gentle push and he was sunk to the hilt. The peach was a soft wet ruin, and nectar flowed, tinged pink with blood.

Slowly he began to withdraw and advance on her, like gentle ripples lapping on the shore. The waves grew stronger, longer, higher. She felt her body responding, muscles contracting and releasing, muscles she didn't know she had, deep inside. As he withdrew, her back would arch, grinding her peachstone against his branch, thick and hard as oak. Within her a ring of muscle squeezed around him, grasping as if to hold him from his retreat, then release as he yielded to her pull, thrusting back inside. With each stroke her hips pitched up to meet his advance, swallowing him deep, as deep as she could and deeper.

He filled her like she'd never been filled before. There was hardly any room left for herself, her soul, her being, as he filled her with his own. She felt him burn inside her. Was it his fire? Or hers, or was it them both, a fever of two bodies and souls forged together in a furnace of passion? The heat grew and grew, bigger than the bed, the meadow, the sky.

She felt dizzy, the world spun. For a moment she felt his soul, his pain, his memories. The seconds bridged decades, it felt. Swords rang, flames leapt, blood flowed. Voices cried out and were silenced. Women and horses screamed. The tide of him rolled over her; she sank beneath the flaming surf of bliss and terror, pleasure and pain, love and loss. She drew a breath but there was no air. She struggled to see but there was no light. Her eyes drank in the darkness, her ears, the din of crashing waves on treacherous rocks. It all dimmed and faded. She fell, for leagues and leagues, for hours and hours, into the empty abyss, until there was no sensation, a void. A nothingness. Consciousness left her, broken on a black beach, under a starless sky.

She awoke to the soothing rhythm of his heartbeat. The last light of the setting moon glimmered through the entwined branches, and the first light of dawn began to glow. The crashing waves were calmed; she was rocked now by the slow steady tide of his breathing. She was disoriented, not fully aware of where she was or what had happened. She felt safe though, wrapped in his cloak, leagues away from any harm or fear or threat. She felt his arm behind her, his long warrior fingers lightly grasping her shoulder, wound with her chestnut hair. His other hand covered hers on his chest, rising and falling with his breath. As she lay there, she studied his hand in the soft early light, the way it sheltered her own like the cavern sheltered him when she nursed him as a fevered, broken man. His fingers were strong, firm, long; not what one might call slender exactly, but not meaty nor knobby. His hands were powerful but gentle, deadly but safe, killers, yet protectors. The hand dwarfed her own, as did all of him, to all of her. Mostly his pain and loss eclipsed hers, she had felt it. What she'd lost, he'd never known.

She felt him stir. She nuzzled her face into his warmth and kissed his flesh. He grasped her hand and pulled it to his lips and gently kissed her fingers then lay them back on his chest. She stroked his fur and followed its trail south. His majesty lay at rest, but woke to her touch. She stroked it, marveling at the life growing in her hand. She slid her cheek down his belly and kissed it, nuzzled it and tasted it. She never done this before; but had heard giggles and whispers of it as a maid unflowered, but never imagined anyone ever wanting to. But now she knew well; she craved it. She slid her lips over the helm, and drew it into her mouth past the gorget and held it, then deeper, and out again. She planted rows of soft wet kisses down its keel.

She started to take it into her mouth again when his strong arms hauled her up onto him, and tugged her knees astride him, and pushed himself into her with a grunt through clenched teeth. His huge hands gripped her hips and ground her into him until she picked up rhythm herself. He reached up and tugged the hair fork from what it still held of her tresses and let them cascade over her bosom and into his chest. He craned his head up to kiss her; she tore at his mouth with hers. He cupped her breasts in his hands; they would have overfilled most any other mans, but fit his with room to spare. He clenched his thumb and forefinger down on a hard pink nipple. She gasped and arched and threw her head back, her hair sweeping behind her. Spasms wracked through her. She cried out his name, his true name. "Seven He…ahahh!" he grunted, and huffed through his teeth. Waves pumped through him, punctuated by gruff growling moans. He shuddered, and she fell to his chest. They lay panting in the growing light. Mist rose off them in the cool air. "Seven Hells, woman," he laughed, and stroked her hair.

"What is it, my sweet love?" she asked.

"You spent me too fast, " he panted. "When I pinched you, you clamped down on me like an iron vice, and when your hair swept o'er my stones, I was done for."

"It's just as well," she whispered, kissing his hot skin. "Dawn breaks, and we'll be missed."


	9. Black and Blue

Black and Blue

After they dressed, Cayn gathered up an armload of split wood, and Gaelle some peaches, and went to the stable to borrow some water from Stranger to splash on her face. She gathered eggs in her apron and hurried to the house. She fetched a basket to the table when Nestor came in from the grotto holding pork and a knife.

"Up early for chores, I see." "Yes, I got the eggs," she said innocently, placing them in the basket two by two.

"Gathering eggs is sweaty work," he commented, as Cayn hobbled in. "You gathered eggs as well, Clegane?" She dropped her apron, ripe peaches splattering on the floor. He set his pork on the table and started slicing deeply at the thick jowl. The knife glinted in the hearth's glow. He'd been up long enough to feed the fire. Had he heard?

Gaelle backed away from the table until she felt Cayn's hands on her shoulders. Her eyes were wet and her mouth hung open.

"Lord Father, how long have you known?" she asked.

"Since the day he arrived," he answered, and lay down the knife. He strode over to them and reached out to Gaelle. He saw the tears in her eyes, the way she stood between them. His countenance softened, and he embraced her. "Child, I have watched you wither here. Caring for him has brought you new life. Do you love him?" She searched her good-father's eyes.

"I do, " she replied.

"Do you love her, Clegane? If you do, wed her or begone. I'll have no daughter of mine whelp a bastard," he said sternly, picking a wilted clover from her hair. "The moon grows full, the Brother should return in a day. Let him wed you when he comes. Until then, you'll keep your hands off her."

That day he took down his neglected armour from the barn loft. He cleaned and greased the studded leather, polished the buckles, and scoured and oiled the rusty metal. He blacked it anew with candle soot, and polished it with care. He sharpened and polished his blades, and conditioned the sheaths. He brushed and curried his horse, saddled him, and took him for a walk in the rear acreage. In the stables that night, he bathed, and trimmed his own whiskers in the broken silvered glass he borrowed from the wall by her alcove. All day he barely spoke to either of them.

She saw Nestor go into the broken towers and come out with some bundles. She avoided him, and kept to her work. She'd salvaged the ruined peaches to make a pie, and she'd feed the Brother well when he came. She feared as well it'd be Cayn's last meal here. She'd seen him preparing. Sometimes she'd steal a moment to weep in the privacy of the dry grotto. "Gods please don't do this again," she whispered.

That night, he slept alone in the barn, and she, cloaked in the curtains of her alcove. She wept herself to sleep, and dreamed of her wedding night, when she knew Ser Gabe, only he transformed into Sandor Clegane, and then rode out of her life on the back of a black demon. She dreamed of life swelling in her then pouring out in a river of blood, while the Mountain Gregor Clegane hacked tall oaks to the ground around her. She dreamed the rivers of the Trident flowed from her, the Green Fork from her womb, and the Red from her wrists and the Blue from her eyes. Then everything swirled red and black, and she fell, until the Brother's strong hand shook her shoulder.

The men had been talking; they'd let her sleep in. The table was already spread with all the lovely things she'd made in her grief, plus some choice goods the Brother had brought. Beneath it lay a gay tablecloth, one only brought out for special occasions. Both benches were drawn up to it. Her eyes took it all in and searched the room. A cloak she almost didn't recognize lay over the chair by the hearth. The black hart's sapphire eye and the fish's silvery scales sparkled in the firelight. She looked at Nestor, and at the Brother, then to Cayn.

He stood without his crutch and knelt by her, and took her hand in his. She began to weep. He held a single white rose. "Would you have me?", he asked with wet eyes, and breaking voice. She cradled his head in her arms and consented, and they held each other in the quiet until the Brother broke it.

"Make merry tonight, but on the morrow he must needs leave with me. He owes a penance. " Gaelle looked into her lover's sad eyes and saw she could not question. She would have to let him go. "He will come with me, to the Quiet Isle," the Brother commanded. "He will confess his sins, and repent in silence, and will dig a grave for each and every life he has sent to one, every man, woman, and child. Only when that is done may he return to you."

"So it must be," Cayn answered, " but I will have one night with my sweet bride."

Nestor produced a bundle of light blue silk. "See if it still fits, sweet Gaelle." It was one of the treasures he'd pulled from the ruin. He presented Cayn with an item as well. It was his eldest son's sword. "Let the couple dress and make ready, we have a wedding to attend."

Nestor swept her away, to her alcove. "Gather your things, daughter, this is my bed now. You shall have the big featherbed. He helped her bundle her pillow, her mother's brush, and her other private belongings into the other room. The bed had been turned and made fresh with clean sheets, and smelled of lavender and chamomile. A bowl and pitcher stood ready for her. He left her to bathe.

An hour later, she came out. She was a vision in her clean silk, her hair lay in a braid down her back. She looked like a true lady again. Nestor sat her in the chair by the fire, and went to see if the Brother was ready. He then lead her out, cloaked in the Tulhart cloak she'd donned before. He walked her through the gate and by the red clover, and into the fallen oak.

He took her breath away. He stood there proudly, his clean wavy hair playing on the wind. His armour glistened in the sun, from his lobstered arms to the buckles on his greaves; the leather of his brigandine shone as black as his horse, its studs echoing the meadow with a multihued patina. The late Chester Tulhart's blade hung at his side. He looked like a warrior again, just like he looked the first time she'd seen him, there on the lists at King's Landing, the week before her first time she wore the Tulhart cloak. His stern look melted when he saw her

Nestor walked her under the arbor of the peach and the oak. He uncloaked her and presented her to her groom. The gleaming giant removed his gauntlets and took her hands in his. He said his words, and she said hers. Sandor Clegane took off his heavy cloak, and wrapped her in it, there on the same bed of flattened cleavers where he'd wrapped her in it before. He kissed his bride and wept.

She helped him back inside to the hearth; his armour was heavy without his crutch. Nestor and the Brother served forth the bounty of the table. He had even brought them an orange. She peeled it and broke it into sections. The lovers fed it to each other and laughed as juice dribbled down their necks and they merrily licked it off. They dined and drank sweet wine, and focused on the happy night while it lasted.

And then she whispered in his ear, and he set down his cup. "I've had enough to eat. I have work to do." He stood, and picked up his bride and lay her across his shoulder.

"Sandor, no. Your leg!" she protested. The name came so easily to her lips. He nodded to the men, and took a flagon of the sweet ruby wine in his other hand.

"I have a furrow to plow and a sack of seed to sow," he announced and turned to hobble her through the bedroom door.

He kicked the heavy door shut with his weaker leg, and gently set his bride down. She patiently unfastened his greaves and lay them carefully aside, and helped him step out of his boots. He lay down his blades and knelt so she could reach the buckles that held his pauldrons and gorget to his brigandine. She helped him remove them all, and waited while he pulled off the heavy mail hauberk and let it fall to the floor. He removed the ragged padded gambeson. She peeled long linen sleeves off him and lay her arms on his bare shoulders. He held her, burying his face in her bosom. She felt warm tears on his cheeks. A sob wracked his body. He held her there for a time, then gently unlaced her and stood to help her out of the delicate gown, and laid it carefully aside. She unlaced him and then lay on the clean sheets. He crawled in beside her and held her. It was their happiest and saddest night, their first and possibly last. They held each other, weeping, until they began to caress and kiss each other gently. He made slow sweet gentle love to her, and then held her until dawn.

Reluctantly he rose from his lover's embrace to face the day. The Brother had knocked three times already. She rose with him and helped him dress, and dressed herself, then went to the table to piece together a hearty breakfast. She carefully hung the orange rind to dry, and minced up some leftover meat and roots to pack into pasties for the journey. She packed him a box of salve for his still healing scar, and tucked a silk-bound posy of her beloved chamomile and a button of tansy into the bundle she prepared for him.

She took two apples and a turnip to that majestic black demon who'd dare to bear him away from her. She looked into his dark eyes and begged him to bring this husband back to her safe, when he could, and buried her face in his warm neck.

In the same room where she had undressed him the night before, she squired for him again. She helped him into his ragged gambeson. She wished she'd sewn new layers on it to refresh it. She helped feed his arms into his heavy mail hauberk, then his brigandine. It still smelled of the lanolin and beeswax he's worked into it. She lay his gorget about his neck and fastened the buckles. "That's such a sad song." She'd been humming again, this time The Rains of Castamere. It was how she felt, as did he. He held up his vambraces while she fastened the pauldrons on his broad shoulders. She knelt at his feet, and fastened his greaves, and handed him his swordbelt and blades.

Hand in hand they left the sweet Nightingale's nest, to meet Stranger, waiting saddled, bridled, and hung with bundles. The Brother led his donkey out through the tiny hidden door, and the black pair followed, as did the bride and her father. Outside the veil of the waterfall, the broken man mounted the black beast, and bent down for one last kiss from his sweet bride.

She stood by the broken walls, and watched again, as another husband left her behind. She lay her hand on her belly and dared barely even hope. A boiled seed does not sprout, she knew, but he was strong, if the gods were good.

Epilogue

If the gods were good, the story might go on to say how sweet Gaelle fared over the coming months, before the winds of winter blew. We might see her eagerly greet the Brother, every full moon, asking for news of her husband. How many graves has he dug, how is he healing, is he strong? He'd always send her a dried white rose, and she would return him a posy of chamomile with a button of tansy tucked in. The moons would wax and wane, and wax again, and she'd hang another dried rose by her pillow.

Four roses would be collected, and the moon would wax again. In the morning she'd stand by the passage to the outside world and wait. She'd see the tall hooded Brother picking his way toward her and then see not a donkey but a majestic black beast behind him, laden with all the goods she awaited from down the river. He'd cast off his hood, and dark eyes would shine. He'd hold a fresh white rose, and embrace his sweet wife and lay his hand on her growing belly.

Would that the gods were good. But they are fickle, and we know not what fate blows in on the winds of winter.


End file.
